


Echoing Green

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2017 [74]
Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, Any/+Spy, undercover missions are great, until you cross paths with someone you're dating or related to."Tag to Spooks Ep 7x01A Methodist minister is on a private pilgrimage in London.Lucas North, born John Bateman, is back on the job for the first time in eight years.





	Echoing Green

“Thank you, Minister, for another lovely sermon.” Mrs. Dawlish patted his hand and then shuffled out of the church before he could respond.

“Minister Bateman,” said Mr. Hammond, “about my granddaughter’s christening -”

He sighed. “I share in your desire to have your daughter blessed by God, but if her parents do not consent, I cannot perform the ceremony.”

Mr. Hammond looked aggrieved.

Jack patted his hand. “All you can do is pray for her and your daughter and her husband.”

“Thank you, Minister.” Mr. Hammond sighed, bowed his head, and left.

Jack saw the last of his parishioners out, then set about closing down the church for the day. Now that the afternoon was free, he could take the train into London, his own private pilgrimage. 

On the train, he read his Bible, the old battered copy with the highlights and scribblings in the margins that had got him through the seminary. At the train station, he bought some flowers. The taxi driver took in his collar, his flowers, and turned his music low, drove him out to Bunhill Fields. When they arrived, Jack thanked the driver, paid him, and then set off among the headstones.

He arrived at William Blake’s grave and left his humble bouquet there among many other more ornate offerings. Jack went to William Blake’s grave, because there was no grave for his son, and for all that had torn them asunder, they’d shared a love of Blake’s words.

Jack murmured a soft poem, one he’d heard his own boy read to him many times. His voice caught on the second verse, about  _ Old John, with white hair, _ because his own John would never have white hair.

And then he said a soft prayer for his son’s soul, and he went on his way. Supper at a familiar pub was the order of the day. He took his cap off as soon as he was indoors. The young lady at the hostess stand - London pubs had hostess stands these days - showed him to a secluded booth, brought him his usual, smiled at him. He left her a nice tip.

Then it was back onto the crowded streets, for the train station. He went to cut through a familiar alley, and then he heard a voice.

A familiar voice.

An impossible voice.

His son, John.

Jack paused, plastered himself against the wall, old military instincts stirring themselves in the back of his mind. He eased toward the sound, listened.

“What are the chances of them understanding Russian?” John asked.

“Probably not good,” another man responded. “Why? What are you thinking?”

“I’ll bet they know the sound of it when they hear it, though,” John said. “Lend me your mobile?”

Jack peered around the corner, and there was his son, in the flesh. Older than Jack had ever seen him. He looked - ill. Gaunt. Too thin, underfed. Pale. Shadows around his eyes. But he was wearing clean, neat clothes. The man with him had neat, dark blond hair and stylish, business-like clothes. He handed John his mobile. John dialed, held the phone to his ear.

Spoke flawless Russian. 

When had he learned that? He’d always done well in his French lessons at school, but -

John ended the call, handed the mobile back. “Now they’re rattled. Come on.” And he drew a pistol.

The other man did the same.

Jack stared, horrified. When had John learned to -? What was he doing? Dare he say something? And then teenaged boys with guns came spilling out of a nearby house. John shot one; his partner shot the other, and into the house they went.

Jack clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his cry. Was that why his son had disappeared? Because he was some kind of criminal? But then police cars and an ambulance converged on the house, and when John emerged, he and his partner were escorting an injured man between them. They helped him into the ambulance, spoke to the police officers with calm authority.

Was John some kind of government agent, then? Some kind of...spook?

Jack watched the scene wind down, unable to take his eyes off of his boy, his living, breathing boy, his brave and competent boy.

The total stranger who had once been his boy.

More than once he thought John was going to look at him, see him, and he yanked himself behind the corner, pressed flat to the wall, waited, counted, then dared to peek around the corner again, but John was always busy, speaking to this officer or that officer or his partner (whose name was Adam).

Then the police cars and ambulance started to disperse, and Jack was far past his usual return time. He’d have to hurry to catch the next train. He kept his footsteps as quiet as he could as he departed.

He was silent, still, dazed on the ride home. He wasn’t sure how he got from the train station to his house, couldn’t remember making the walk, or brushing his teeth, or changing into his pajamas, or getting into bed.

But he lay there, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, and wondering what to do. Could he even contact his son?  _ Should _ he contact his son? Would that endanger his work as a spook? Wouldn’t someone have come to interview him if his son was entering that line of work? What had happened today?

Eventually Jack closed his eyes, drifted off.

He dreamed of his son, of his John sitting on the edge of his bed, speaking to him softly.

_ I know you saw me today. _

_ I promise I haven’t forgotten you, or anything you taught me. _

He recited the final lines of a familiar Blake poem.

_ Many sisters and brothers, _ __  
_ Like birds in their nest, _ __  
_ Are ready for rest; _ __  
_ And sport no more seen, _ _  
_ ___On the darkening Green._

When Jack rose the next morning, he was sure it had been a dream, only there was a paper poppy on the nightstand that he was sure hadn’t been there the night before, and then on Remembrance Sunday he heard the news about a terrorist bombing in London, and he wondered if his boy was finally lost after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem quoted in the story, Ecchoing Green, by William Blake.


End file.
